


Proof of Thy Toil

by HuiLian



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Violinist Damian Wayne, i can't tag help, is this fluff?, or crack?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 05:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18931801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HuiLian/pseuds/HuiLian
Summary: Tim is not unobservant, per se, but even he admits that sometimes he chooses not to pay attention to something. Well, at least until he has the thing in question being shoved in front of his face. Metaphorically.Literally, however, the thing in question is holding Tim’s arm. No, not the thing. The person. Damian.





	Proof of Thy Toil

**Author's Note:**

> After months of not playing violin (thanks exams!!!!), I played again and my calluses pop out again. Oh well.

 

Tim is not _unobservant_ , per se, but even he admits that sometimes he chooses not to pay attention to something. Well, at least until he has the thing in question being shoved in front of his face. Metaphorically.

Literally, however, the thing in question is holding Tim’s arm. No, not the thing. The person. Damian.

After years of knowing him, Tim had just realized that he has never had his bare arms being touched by Damian’s bare hands. Is that weird?

(It is weird. Both the hypervigilance of taking stock every instance of him being touched, and never touching a sibling after years of knowing him. And, well, Damian is his brother now, Demon Spawn or not.)

Usually when they touch, they have at least one barrier of clothing between them, and for most of the time, two barriers. Because the times when they touch the most is on patrol, out of necessity, and on patrol most of their skin is covered. When their skin is not covered anymore, it means they are _very, very_ close to dying. (Except for Dick’s Robin uniform. What was he _thinking?)_

It makes patrol hell in summer, actually.

No, back to the topic. Because it was the first time Damian’s bare hands had touched Tim’s bare skin (Is he using the word bare too much? And now he’s rambling even in his head. Great.), Tim had just realized that Damian has calluses on his fingers. On the _tip_ of his fingers.

All of them has calluses. It is practically a given, considering their line of work. Handling weapons, training, climbing buildings, and fighting would give calluses whether they want them or not. But never on the tip of the fingers. Not Bruce, not Dick, nor Cass has that kind of calluses. Not Tim himself. So, what has Damian been doing to gain that calluses?

He has ruled out using multiple weapons in their admittedly large arsenal. If not one of the others has them, then it is not some weapon giving those calluses. Same reason for fighting. Climbing _does_ cause calluses on your fingers, but not precisely where they are situated on Damian’s fingers.

Maybe training? Damian did have all those years of training from the League to consider about.

(And, yes, Tim knows he can just _ask_ , but it simply won’t do. Or, not, he cannot just ask, this is _Damian_. He’ll probably do another attempt on Tim’s life.)

And so began Tim’s descent to the hell that is attempting to decode Damian’s training on the League of Assassins. He has to carefully list every single thing that he has seen Damian do, every single thing that he has seen members of the League do, and every single thing he thinks that Talia would deem useful for Damian. And then he has to cross reference them with each other. And then he has to figure out if that particular activity would create calluses on the fingertips in the exact same spot in Damian’s hand.

It is thankless work. By the end of all of that, Tim has a plethora of new (and gross) information on calluses, blisters, and other unmentionable things, but he _still_ does not know what causes Damian to have those particular calluses.

Tim considers letting it go, but he cannot. He physically cannot let it go. So, time to bite the bullet, then. At least the satisfaction of it will bring him back.

“Damian? Demon Spawn?”

“What, Drake?” Damn it. Why is it that when Tim wants to ask Damian something, he has to be in the middle of something. Damian is holding a violin, with a partiture in front of him on a stand. Tim don’t know much about playing a musical instrument, but he can guess that most people does not like it if they are interrupted when playing.  Why does Dick never have this trouble?

(Because Dick would notice that Damian is practicing, and therefore won’t come in when he is. Again, sometimes Tim chooses not to pay attention.)

“Drake?” Damian asks again. Damn, damn, damn.

“Where did you get the calluses?” Tim blurts out. Ah, damn it. Oh well. The cat is out now.  (Again with cat metaphors. Is there _that_ many cat metaphors? Why?) Let’s hope that satisfaction can _actually_ bring him back from the dead.

“Calluses? What are you talking about, Drake?” Damian frowns. “And how long has it been since you slept?”

“Irrelevant. The calluses. On your fingers.”

Damian’s frown increases. “What?”

Tim gestures with his hands. “The calluses. On your fingertips. No one else has them. Where did you get them?”

Damian tilts his head. Opens his mouth to speak, closes them, puts down the violin in its case, lifts his hand, and says, “These calluses?”

“Yes.”

“From playing the violin.”

“From… playing the violin?”

“Tt. Yes, that is what I said. Are you deaf as well as dumb, Drake?”

Tim lets the insult wash through him. Damian has insulted him too often for it to have much effect anymore. “How?”

Damian stares at him. Tim knows he deserves that stare. He _can_ figure it out, if he hadn’t spent the last three days frantically researching calluses. But he had, and so he can’t figure it out. Not right now.

“Tt. Like this, Drake.” Damian picks up the violin again, and shows Tim how he presses the strings. Tim knows that. He knows how violins work. What he does not know is how on earth it manages to create calluses.

Tim hears Damian snort. Did he say that out loud?

“When I press the strings, it digs into my fingers. That creates the calluses. I assume you know why calluses form?” Damian says condescendingly.

“Oh. Where did you learn to play violin?” Damn it, Tim. Why did you have to ask that? The cat is not satisfied, apparently.

Damian winces, just a bit. If Tim is not, you know, Tim, he won’t catch it. “From the League.”

“The League?” Talia does not seem like the type of mother that would allow extracurriculars like this. Not when Damian has assassin skills to master.

“One of my tutors played acceptably well. I asked to be taught.”

“Oh.”

“Tt. Does that satisfy you, Drake?” Tim nods. Actually, Tim now has _more_ questions about Damian and violin, but even his addled mind can see that this is not the time. Not to mention that he needs at least ten hours of sleep before he can deal with the horrors that managed to make Damian Wayne wince. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to practice.”

Tim knows a dismissal when he sees one. He makes a tactical retreat to his own room. He’ll ask later. After sleep. Or coffee. Coffee is good.

Maybe for Damian’s next birthday, Tim will give him _something_ that has to do with violin. He’ll have to research it later.

**Author's Note:**

> check out my tumblr (huilian.tumblr.com)


End file.
